Deck of cards

I am used and reused.

Like a deck of cards, I have become worn.

I am tearing apart at the edges and my color is fading.

Parts of me have become lost.

52 becomes 50 which soon becomes 40.

I am burning myself out for the sake of others.

Does their pleasure justify my pain?

I always put them first,

But to them,

I am just a deck of cards

Something to play with,

Put away,

Forget about,

And replace.

In my heart, I know this to be true,

But it doesn’t change a single thing.

I stay hidden away in the darkness of a drawer,

One that is impossible to leave,

And I wait for them to use me again.